Ten Thousand Things
by Elanthra
Summary: Backstory for John. Especially his mother. Includes a missing scene for Rising and Tags for Outcast and Remnants.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Foreword: This is a story started way back when Remnants first aired. Joe Mallozzi commented on his blog that among the many things cut from that episode was the remark by the Sakkari, that John mustn't blame himself for what happened with his mother... so I started thinking... what could possibly have occurred to have led to that?

Rating: T for swearing... I probably ought to cut those out because this really is a K story...

Title: It's a Buddhist thing... ten thousand things make up life... I guess if Buddha had been alive today, it'd be ten million things.

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate. I'm glad I don't... I'd hate that sort of responsibility... it fairly makes me shake and quiver to simply write and publish fanfic...

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Ten Thousand Things - Part One

"Look mommy! Look mommy, I'm flying! I'm flying just like a jet, mommy!"

And another jet flew low over the bluff, screeching, cutting air, turning wings on edge, dipping down towards the black-blue sea, disappearing from view, rising again, soaring up, up, up into grey skies.

Power. Energy. That thumped through the ground beneath his feet. Power and energy that shook his small frame. Power and intensity that drummed through every limb, bone. Thrilled through every nerve, eyes. Vibrated through outstretched wing arms.

"Look, John! Mommy's one too!" And she ran forward, spreading out her arms, laughing, zigzagging, looping round, overtaking him, dark hair and words carried back with the wind. And the two black Labradors, Janie and Maisie, barked and barked, chasing tails, round and round, running, bounding, excited, joining in the fun.

And he laughed too. And yelled, filling his lungs with the noise of the jets. Didn't matter they'd go deaf.

"You guys are crazy!" shouted David scornfully, concentrating on keeping his kite aloft.

A third jet followed, shrieking. Every detail clear on its fuselage, its underbelly.

You could even _feel_ the heat. You could even _see_ the pilot.

The grass of the cliff path flat, bowed down, turned grey as the wind, the rush, the downdraught streamed, quivered through every blade. He was going to go that fast. He was going to run that fast forever and forever. Be a jet forever and ever.

And he tripped and fell, rolling over and over, breathless, still laughing. But the grass was soft. It didn't graze like tarmac. And mom was there beside him. Laughing too. And she put her arms around him. And it was soft too, and warm, and comfort, and forever.

And the praying face and the praying hands of the white angel of Great Aunt Matilda seemed to bless the whole wide world.

-oAo-

Rockfall has changed little. But you can never call Rockfall sleepy. A fresh breeze blows off the Atlantic. And that's constant. Stirring up white crests on the waves of the incoming tide. Agitating the small craft moored up along the boardwalks of the marina. Causing the sea to slap and slop against wet hulls that glisten in the afternoon sunshine. Fidgeting the sails and rigging of yachts. A perpetual clinking. And gulls caw and screech, dipping, and diving and rising again in the thermals of the small bay. And there's always one craft, leisure or fishing, chugging at low throttle, wending its way around the protective harbour wall.

He selects a coil of thick heavy duty rope thrown to one side and casually sits with a foot resting up on a lobster pot and sits. No one minds. It's that sort of place. Easy going. He guesses that's why he comes back from time to time despite everything… Though he knows he's going to regret sitting there soon: damp, and the smell of salt and fish will soak through into his jeans in no time flat but he's bored with aimlessly strolling round the quayside and the immediate streets surrounding it.

He's been going over things in his head ten thousand times. Memories. The future. What's best…

But this place… this place is as alien to him now… as that other place must be… so… he might as well take the chance…

This place… this place, Rockfall, should have been where he should have put down roots… if life, fate, destiny, whatever, had dealt a better hand… though he was never one to give into maudlin, bitter thoughts… he'd learnt long, long ago, the hard way, how fruitless that could be, how that could eat you up… you push everything to the back… and blank it out… If he ever had any ties to Earth it would be here… here would be the test, he knew that… But those ties were gone…Time heals they says and he was testament to that… Time to move on and leave the ghosts behind…

Gentle gusts catch at his thick black hair and he attempts and fails to flick it back into some sort of order. He squints, dazzled by the sunlight playing on the water, wishing he hadn't left his shades back in the hire car. He stands, heading back the way he's just come. He's promised he'd visit Tom and Clarrie and knows Clarrie would be busy baking now… a cake or something… his aunt always insists on feeding him when he passes by Rockfall… He's always too thin for her liking…

The river Rock feeds into the harbour and the quayside road climbs slightly to join the main highway that goes over the bridge. Grassy slopes spread beyond, steeply rising to meet the cemetery and chapel of rest, sitting on the cliff top. The white angel, the statue headstone of Aunt Matilda stands in the centre of the cemetery, like some sort of guardian over the town.

He's still too early for Tom's, so he sits again on the grass bank of the river. Cyclists pass by on the road behind.

Just passing by an ordinary kind of guy… wondering whether to journey through a Stargate to another Galaxy… yeah… ordinary…

He remembers, wincing, that General O'Neill, had virtually tried blackmailing him into going to… Atlantis…

'If you don't give me a 'yes' by the time we reach McMurdo, I don't want yer.'

He should be flattered that they'd even asked. After Afghanistan… being sent to McMurdo was virtually demotion. It was certainly the death knell of any future promotion prospects… not that he was ever much of a career sort of guy. As long as he could fly, that's all that had ever mattered… though he guessed he wouldn't be flying from now on… this was, after all, a scientific expedition, with military personnel going along for protection… hand picked marines with previous Stargate experience… He was going to be a bit of an oddball… No one had said anything about flying… He was going to be giving that up and that was going to be hard… It's all he'd ever wanted to do… It's all he'd ever lived for… Was it going to be worth the sacrifice?... And it piqued… a little… that he was wanted for this 'mutant' gene, and less for any previous experience with special ops… And he wonders which parent had handed down the gene… and secretly hopes it was his mother… because… that would make it… special… And if it were Dad, then would David have it too… And this Dr. Beckett had said they had ways of finding out, winking because it was cloak and dagger stuff, so a register could be kept… just in case… just in case of what?…

So why couldn't he just say 'yes' to the General, there and then? What was he so afraid of? _Was _he afraid? He was a Major in the American Air Force. He'd been under enemy fire. Since when had he ever been concerned about saving his own skin and backing out of anything? Though having that drone thing nearly blow up his chopper hadn't done a lot for him… And guys had been doing this Stargate stuff now, for what… eight, nine years? It wasn't exactly new...

They'd been told they might never come back. Hell, he'd been up in choppers and knew he might never come back… But this was kinda scary stuff… and scary that the stuff of sci fi really was so very true, and all the rumours of work done at Area 51 and Cheyenne Mountain weren't just rumours… scary that he had this ability to use this alien technology… and he remembers sitting in the Ancient chair… 'Major, think about where we are in the solar system'… and the whole space above his head had lit up with, well… _space_… and suddenly he was connected… somehow… to…

O'Neill was dead right when he said 'this thing is bigger than you'… John felt he was connected to something big, indefinable, unknown, beyond this life… and yet, there was a sense, some sort of sixth sense, that… he _belonged _to it… that his whole life had always been heading in this direction…

Destiny… Was he afraid of that?

He shifts uneasily… Shrinks… shrinks he'd seen, would say he was afraid of failure… damn… shrinks _had_ said that… shrinks had said he was afraid of letting people down, and it meant he took unnecessary risks… to prove that wrong… damn… why could they never see it was simply doing his job to the very best of his ability? Why had they always got to dissect this stuff? Why always blame it on… his mother, father, Nancy?...

His father had accused him of running away… joining the Air Force to run away… volunteering for dangerous missions to run away… Was he doing that now? If he accepted this position? Had he really left the ghosts buried behind him in the past?

_Running away from the child that cries in the darkness, forever damned to see the tears of a white angel…_

Was he still running? Hell, even he was doing the self-analysis now… No… you had to move on… and you couldn't move on with so much baggage holding you back… he was ready for this now… ready for a new life…

But he pulls out the dime, all the same. He'd known since last night when he hadn't slept, when his head had just gone round in circles, like it was now… that he'd end up doing this.

He calls heads, tossing and slapping the coin down firmly on the back of his hand.

Heads.

Atlantis it was then. No going back.

This Rockfall local boy was going to the stars…

-oAo-

Uncle Tom called it a one horse town. He guessed that was Mom's horse. Coz he didn't ever see any other. Dad bought it for her for a wedding present David said. They were the only folks rich enough to own a horse he said. It was kept in a field by the cemetery. The horse always seemed lonely. Its head over the fence like it was talking to the big white angel. Mom didn't ride that much though. She liked to go for a run. Or swim. One day, David said, Dad planned to be even richer and they'd own lots more land and have lots more horses and the boys would have their own horse apiece. John wasn't sure… he was given rides and didn't like it that much… he hated the way the horse moved beneath him… you couldn't tell where the bumps were coming from… and he hated the way it nuzzled into his hair when he was down on the ground… dribbling yuk everywhere… Dad said the horse was too big for him… that he'd soon get used to riding when he had his own horse and had lessons… David called him girlie for being so scared… John would much rather have a plane than a horse… but he daren't say so…

Uncle Tom was Mom's older brother. Uncle Tom was married to Aunt Clarrie. Aunt Clarrie and Mom were best friends. They had been to school together. Rockfall was their hometown. Mom was a Kirkwood. There had been Kirkwoods in Rockfall for hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years. Great Aunt Matilda was a Kirkwood too and she was so old, she'd become the big white angel in the cemetery that looked out to sea. Dad had come from Outatown. John didn't know where that was. Dad worked in the city. He was driven to work in a long black car by a man called…a…a… showfer who wore a black hat. David said that was because Dad was an important man. The showfer, called Jake, also drove the big lawnmower. The mower had a big engine that thudded through the ground. But not as big as planes. The showfer cut branches too. That Mom couldn't reach. Mom liked to work in the garden. The garden was big. 'You should let Jake do it,' said Dad. But Mom said she liked to do it. Jake was married to Kathy. Kathy came in to cook and clean. But Mom liked to cook too. She liked to cook for David and John. Two other ladies came into clean too on some days. John didn't like them much. They touched his stuff. Told him to keep tidy. Told him not to bring dirt in the house. Mom said: 'He's young.'

The house they lived in had once been lived in by his Gran and Granpa. He didn't know why they didn't live there anymore. It was a very big house. So there would have been plenty of room. He would have loved his grandparents to have stayed. They looked nice people in their photos on the big dresser. Other boy's grandparents gave them candy. But Uncle Tom was also good like that...

...John stopped walking suddenly. Trying to sort things out in his head. Coz that didn't make sense. He stopped kicking the stone with his sneakers. Stopped following David and David's best friend, Wilson.

He then asked David why grandma and grandpa didn't live in the house anymore. David knew a lot of stuff.

David looked back. He was dead annoyed. Annoyed that he had to babysit his little brother. _Again_. Annoyed that every once in a while, John's stone hit the two older boys hard on the back of their legs. John said sorry but he knew he didn't really mean it.

"They're dead, stupid! Keep up, if you're coming!"

"Oh," said John. And he frowned. Looking down at the ground. Following the two in front some more. Pastor Linley said: when you died and if you were good, you went to heaven with the angels and if you were bad, you went to hell with the devil. And God got to chose, who was good and who was bad. But… you had to make it easy for God to decide and not be bad at all and there were lots of rules. Though if you got to fly, with your own wings, John had decided to damn well make sure he was good… coz flying with your very own wings would be so, so cool.

And it was weird, coz God was Father of everyone but John already had a Dad. And yeah, Dad did get to decide who was bad and who was good in their house, so that figured…

But pictures at Sunday School showed heaven in the clouds with angels and hell underground with deep pits full of fire and once a picture of somewhere in between, that just looked cold and miserable but was still underground. Probably for those God couldn't decide whether they were good or bad. But it didn't make any sense… the big white angel was in the cemetery. And was Great Aunt Matilda who was hundreds of years old…

And what _was _died and dead. He'd heard those words before and knew they meant the same thing: they were sad words. Dead was like the rabbits that bobbed around the coast road grass and ended up as squished road kill. Like broken toys that didn't move any more. And he'd heard about dead at Halloween. It'd been his first when he'd been allowed to dress up and get real messy with face paints and wear plastic fangs that made you dribble and you were allowed to knock on people's doors and ask for candy. And everyone talked of ghosts and zombies, witches and vampires. That climb out of holes in the ground called graves or big boxes called caskets. So they were bad guys who came up from underground, from Hell? So the cemetery, full of its headstones was for bad people? Oh, that was so creepy…

Well, the nice people in the photos couldn't possibly have ended up like that… so they must have gone for angels. And you had to leave home for that to happen coz humans were different to rabbits… God's children… Though when Dad got to decide when you were bad, you were just sent to your room with no TV or allowance for the week… twice he'd been cuffed around the head… once, smacked hard, real hard across the backside that made him cry… but Dad never sent you away from home. And… he couldn't remember Dad ever saying he was good… Mom always gave him a hug.

So what was Great Aunt Matilda doing there? Ah, a Guardian Angel. Who looked after everyone. Mom said she'd given money to charity. That was a grown-up word for the poor. Dad said: the Kirkwoods would have been have been a whole lot richer if the woman hadn't gone so soft in the head and spent her fortune on down and outs. That was more grown up talk-

"-Are you sure it's ok?" Even Wilson wasn't certain and David was his best friend. David was already pulling his sweater cuffs over his hands to protect them from the barbed wire before starting to climb the fence that bent and creaked with his weight. He just dared Wilson with a smile. So Wilson followed suit.

"What about him?" asked Wilson before he started to haul himself up, nodding to John with his head, considering John's small height might not get him over the fence. John just stood there, looking up the whole nine or ten feet of rusty chain link, thinking that too. Thinking too: why was there a sign with red writing that he couldn't read and a picture of a big black dog?

David paused at the very top and then replied as he dropped down to the other side.

"He can come too if he isn't chicken." So John pulled his sleeves down and climbed on up. He found it easier than David or Wilson. The fence didn't bend over awkwardly at the top and his smaller feet fitted in the holes. But David and Wilson were already lost from view in the dense undergrowth on the other side when he reached the top. Beyond was the derelict house and outbuildings with boarded up windows and doors. He could hear rustling in the leaves that showed where the two older boys were heading. He gingerly lifted legs and hands over the barbs, wishing he'd put on thicker jeans and not his newer thinner army camouflage pants he'd gotten Mom to buy him. He clambered down and started pushing his way through the dark greenery. The sunlight was gone in that instant and damp smells came up from the earth. There were snails and slugs and cobwebs and creepy crawlies everywhere. He was sure there had to be poison ivy in here somewhere too. And he thought hard to remember what it looked like so that he wouldn't accidentally touch any. He wasn't scared though. He was sure he wasn't. He just… didn't like the feeling of being left behind. Or being alone.

"Ow!"

He stopped suddenly, wincing, as one stray briar branch caught and tangled in his thick black hair, scratching his scalp.

"David!" he whispered loudly, coz… this just felt like the sort of place you had to keep your voice down.

But David didn't come. John knew he wouldn't. He took hold of the briar carefully between his finger and thumb, fidgeting it out of his hair and when that didn't seem to work, he gave it a hefty jerk.

"Ow!" he cried out again as a whole hunk of hair got taken out by the roots, making his eyes smart.

And then the dog started barking.

And David and Wilson were shouting.

And then the two boys were crashing through the undergrowth right at him.

And the barking was closer. And fiercer. And more savage. And David was pushing him forward and nearly knocking him over.

"Get out! Get out, quick!" Yelled David, still pushing him forward through the undergrowth, virtually using him as a battering ram. Branches were whipping at his face. He held up his arms. To stop the scratches. They were running too fast. He was gonna trip and fall over.

"Crap, David! Crap, David!" Coz David had taught him good swears. "Crap, David, you're hurting!"

"Go! Go! Go! That dog'll hurt a whole lot more!" They reached the boundary in a different place. The fence nailed to a tree here. John was elbowed out the way as David and Wilson scrambled up the trunk. John wasn't far behind though but neither was the dog, already leaping up the tree, madly barking, falling back, careering round and round, salivating from the pair of biggest jaws John had ever seen in his short life. Nearly to the top when - a nail ripped through his pants leg, tearing and snagging at the fabric, acting like a brake, making him lose hold on a branch. He slipped but was able to grab the tree again, grazing a hand, with the dog's open snarling mouth only inches from his feet. Upwards again. But he couldn't move. Something was holding him back. A small branch. Gone through the hole in his pants. Pinning him there. He twisted round reaching out with his one free hand. His fingers wouldn't reach that far. And the dog snapping so close, front claws up on the trunk, pawing upwards. John jerked away. More fabric ripping. His underclothes. Now he was starting to sniff. But he mustn't cry. David and Wilson mustn't know he wanted to cry.

"John! John! Where are you? Hurry up! The guard will come and get you if you don't hurry."

"I'm… I'm hooked up on something…" He heard scrambling and David's head appeared at the top of the fence.

"Christ, John! Have you… I can see your backside!" And David started to snigger and it was harder than ever for John to hold back the tears.

"You'll have to get Mom!" he managed.

David took one look at the dog and seemed to agree with that. "You are going to get in so much trouble!" he warned as he disappeared.

And that seemed so unfair. He'd never be here if it weren't for David. And it wasn't his fault… that he was stuck… in this damn… stinking… crapping… tree… it really wasn't fair… why didn't things just go right… why did they just go wrong… and he was bawling properly now… and only easing up with hiccupping sniffs when the guard whistled over the dog, appearing with Mom.

She, sympathetic. The guard not so. A face set hard. He helped John down with big strong hands. And swung him effortlessly out of the tree. Arms like Uncle Tom's. Though this was a stranger. Once his father had held him. And it felt awkward, like this.

"I won't bring charges," the man said. What are those? thought John.

"I have kids myself… but he has to be told… to respect other people's property…" John stood miserably, wedged between the two adults, looking down, holding up the loose flap on his pants with one hand and passing the back of his hand across his runny nose. His Mom bent down and sharply wiped his face with her own hanky.

"What are you saying, Mr. Singleton, that I don't bring up my children properly?" He'd never heard his mom talk like that before. And she took off her pink cardigan and tied it round John's chest so that it draped down over the hole in his clothing. And John didn't know which was worse… the hole or… wearing pink… if David ever got to see this…

"Don't Mom. Don't Mom," he complained. But she didn't take any notice. She stood to talk to the big guard.

"It's not as if he was stealing or anything…"

"I know that… I know who you are… but… there are laws, rules, you know…"

"It'll get dealt with. Thank you for your assistance," and she took John's hand firmly and marched him along the path through the bushes.

But she said nothing.

And he couldn't help it but he began to cry again. Because he couldn't bear his Mom not speaking to him. And she was down beside him in an instant, wiping the tears from his face with her hand. Her face so kind. Her eyes so kind.

"Hey, hey, pet…"

"I'm sorry…"

"I know that. I'm not cross with you, John." And he tried to stop crying but couldn't.

"And John?" and she stroked his face again with the back of her hand. "It's ok to cry. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different…"

It was David that spilled the beans to Dad.

And it was Dad that wouldn't believe him that David was there too. And Dad that got to decide he'd get no treats or TV that week.

And it was John that sat in his room and listened to his parents' shouting coming up the big grand staircase and down the landing. And it was John who felt bad. He felt bad because he knew Mom was in trouble for something he had done. And Dad had got to decide that…

-oAo-

A part of the garden was put aside for David and John to play in. There was a swing. And he could fly high into the sky on a swing. And his stomach would turn and he'd feel sick and giddy but he didn't care. Soon he got used to that feeling. There was also a wooden climbing frame. With a slide. And a sand pit. A small hut that held bats and balls and stuff. David played there less nowadays. Leaving his younger brother alone.

John didn't mind. John hadn't really forgiven him over the tree.

"Don't you ever say I was there," warns David.

And.

"You cried! Why do you always cry like a sissy?"

"I don't!"

"You always do! One little scratch! And it's Maddie, Maddie, I need a plaster!"

"Don't!" And he kicked David hard in the shins. And they fought in the dust of the garden. And John might cry but he was David's equal in a fight. And it was David who ran off that time…

No. He doesn't mind David not playing in the garden anymore.

Mom had placed a table, chairs and a sunshade there so she could sit with him. She often read now he didn't need pushing on the swing. Or they'd chat over a juice. 'When I grow up, I want to be a pilot.' 'Well, it's good to know what you want to be. But lets keep that our little secret. Just you and me. Lets not tell Dad.' 'We can surprise him?' 'Yes. Lets do that.'

Or she would go and garden. Never too far away.

He likes the sand pit. He makes runways with his toy dumper trucks. And then planes can take off and fly round the garden. Fly round the whole wide world…

When Uncle Tom and Aunt Clarrie come to visit Mom and the weather is ok, that's where the three of them sit. Kathy brings out drinks and snacks. He plays quietly once they've ruffled his hair and said how much he'd grown. He listens to their voices and tries to understand. Sometimes they speak quietly and look his way and he knows then he isn't supposed to listen.

"He wants to send the boys away to school… What is the point of having kids if you do that?... He says it'd be good for them… Character building!... He says they're running out of control… It's my fault… I mean, he's lining them up for Ivy League… at this age!... yeah ok… though I hope he gives them the chance to decide for themselves when they're ready… David would be ok… but John… he's too young… and more… sensitive… what is wrong with the local school?... we all did it… It's snobbery… it's Pat's sense of values… they're not mine anymore… it's using the kids as some kind of status symbol… what do I do?... I can't just leave… David's mother lost custody of David… I should have known when I married him… Patrick's like that… I'd lose John…"

"You'll work things out…" says Aunt Clarrie.

He tries not to listen. To listen to the pain in his mother's voice. He tries not to look. He knows there are tears. He pushes his trucks deep into sand. He feels… angry. He feels angry that he can't stop this hurt. And he is to blame. He doesn't understand all the words. Except that he has to go to school. He knows he is big enough to go now. So… this is his fault. This is his fault that his mother is unhappy and that his parents argue…

-oAo-

The house they lived in looked out to sea. There was a kinda dip down from the cemetery and then a climb back up to their house. So you could always see the big white angel. A path led from the house, across the cliff, around the cemetery so you could walk to town. Or… another path took you to the beach down white steps made of wood. You weren't allowed there unless David was there too. And you weren't allowed to swim unless Mom was there because it was dangerous. Dad said they should get a house with a pool but Mom liked this house. She made picnics on hot days and they'd spend all day playing in the water. The beach was sandy but with loads of pebbles that hurt your feet. But you could find interesting stuff there washed up by the sea. Close to the big cliff were rock pools. And seabirds flew like planes, swooping and diving, black against blood red sunsets or skittered across the shoreline of a hush hush tide. And shade would stretch over the beach from the cliffs and… 'it's time to put on jackets' Maddie would say, as they start to shiver. And it's time to take those white steps back home with the two boys banging every plank hard with their feet till the whole stairway shudders and Maddie starts to scream at them to hold steady. There's always a loose plank after every storm. But John and David just grin. David especially. They love it because it's scary…

One day, when they're down on the beach alone and walking home, John asks David, "why do you call Mom, Maddie?" John doesn't know why. And doesn't know why he's never asked before. Its how things have always been. David calls Mom, Maddie. John calls Mom, Mom.

"Coz she's not my mom. Dad divorced my mom and married your mom. We're half-brothers."

"Oh." But he didn't understand that. Half a brother? That didn't make sense.

"What's half a brother?" John was following David, trying to keep his footsteps exactly where David's had been in the sand, stretching his shorter legs into giant, giant strides because David was growing fast now and the grown ups called him tall for his age. He was a good foot higher than John. But one day John would be as tall as him.

"When you're like us. Same dad. Different moms. Or the other way round. Same mom. Different dads."

Still didn't make sense.

"What's dee vorce, then, David?"

"When you stop being married."

"What's married, David?"

And David sighed now because he knew then that his little brother was on a wind up.

They'd reached the steps. And whenever they reached the steps, they always played their game. In turns. To think of a different way up. Miss a step. Hop. On your hands and knees. Go backwards. Go backwards on your backside. Because walking up the steps straight was just plain boring.

David's turn. And it was pay back time for the questions. A dare.

"All the way up. _Underneath_."

And John looked up. He knew there were forty eight steps. David had counted them. And John had learnt his numbers by counting with him… but forty eight steps suddenly seemed like an awful long way…

"You mean… like hanging like a monkey?"

"Yeah."

"But we've been told not to-" Not to get into any more scrapes.

"-_You've_ been told not to. Scared?"

"No." Because he wasn't now. Because he'd thought he could do this.

"It's easy. I've done it before." And David walked beneath the stairway, spat on his hands, and jumped, grabbing at the tenth step, starting off, swinging up his legs to push on the lower rungs, quickly going upwards.

So. It was like crawling upside down. Piece of cake. John had heard that said on TV once. And he liked saying it now.

He copied David, jumping up at step number seven. And he already figured then that David had an unfair start. He started counting. Because that made it easier. Thumping came from the boards above him as David carried on climbing.

At twenty, his arms and shoulders ached and ached. His hands felt sore and splintered and ached too from holding on so tight. And his legs felt like lead weights as he hitched them along behind him. He was hot and out of breath. He paused for rest. Looking down. This was the highest point above the beach. But he had no fear of heights. And it was weird looking at the ground from here. An upside down world.

If you flew in a jet… and turned the plane over… like the acrobatic ones… the Thunderbirds… the world would look like this…

But he knew he couldn't stop long. Hanging there was making his arms ache even more. Up again. But slower. And David yelling from the top because he'd already made it there.

"Christ John! Are you crazy? I didn't think you were _actually_ going to do this! Dad'll kill me! I thought you'd chicken out! Why didn't you jump down when you had the chance! Christ John!"

From now on, the steps bridged over a grassy rocky slope coming down from the top. Step number thirty. Slower. Slower. And harder. And arms that felt like they wanted to leave his shoulder sockets. This was stupid. But… he couldn't go back. Every step a gasp. And he was so thirsty and hot.

His legs slipped down suddenly. And he was left hanging by his arms. Too tired to swing his legs back up again. Now his arms were going to have to carry the whole weight of his body. No. If he reached for the next step, only one hand would hold his weight.

David had come clattering down the steps until he was above him, stooping and trying to reach for John's hand through the gap. His brother was screaming at him. David wasn't scared before. But he sounded scared now

"Reach for my hand! Reach for my hand and I'll pull you through!" But it just wasn't going to work. David wouldn't be able to pull him. He was just too big for the space. David was stronger than John but not that strong. And just holding onto David's hand was no different than just holding onto one step.

And John still didn't like the idea of hanging by one hand, even for only a second. When his arms and shoulders ached so.

"Keep going! Keep going! Not far now!" urged David. "Another yard and swing over to your right. There's a pile of dirt. You can get to it! Go on! Go on! _I've_ done it!"

He couldn't. He knew that. He looked down. Not far. And he sorta felt proud. This was his decision. Not Dad's. Not Mom's. Not David's. His very own…

And he let go…

-oAo-

When he woke, he heard people talking. But he was feeling too sleepy to open his eyes. Was it time to get up? Usually Mom came into his room to do that… But it was Aunt Clarrie and Uncle Tom that were talking. They were in his bedroom? And Uncle Tom was saying, 'You have to admire him… to get so high…"

And then he remembered falling. And then he remembered waking once before and crying because his shoulder hurt so much and the Doctor was only trying to help but he was making it hurt more and Mom was crying too…

Mom was crying now…

And Uncle Tom asked quietly: "Patrick not coming then?"

"No… still in Chicago… he phoned… God, Thomas… John could have died and Patrick couldn't leave a goddamned meeting!"

"But he didn't," said Aunt Clarrie in a nice kind voice.

"Children bounce, you know?" said Uncle Tom.

And John remembered his fall again. And it hadn't felt like bouncing… he was rolling and rolling… really, really fast, trying to grab a bush, grass, anything, and then the pain in his shoulder and then he hit his head, saw stars, heard whizzing in his ears, felt sick, fought it, tried not to be sick, and then went to sleep…

His mom was still crying…

He opened his eyes. And she was there beside his bed. A hospital bed with rails at the side. So she couldn't get close but passed her hand through the rail to hold his. And there were nasty medicine smells. And his other arm was stiff in a plaster cast. And his mother's eyes were really red.

"I'm sorry, mom." Because he had made her cry again. "You're not too cross?"

"It's ok, sweetheart," and she patted his hand. "I'm just glad… be more careful…"

-oAo-

His father had brought him chocolate in hospital which was nice because he had lost his appetite but he could always eat chocolate. But Dad hadn't seemed pleased to see him. He didn't shout at John which was nice too. But he'd gotten told off.

"What's with you kids? You just don't seem to understand danger, do you? Scared your mother to death," said his Dad.

So he couldn't start school when he was supposed to until his arm and collarbone had mended. And Uncle Tom joked. "Start as you mean to go on, eh, John? Boys will do anything to get out of school!"

Though he would rather go to school than put up with the long hours of boredom cooped up in his bedroom and trying not to poke things down his plaster cast to scratch at the itchiness there.

His Mom spent the following weeks reading stories to him. Or she would turn the pages of his many books on aeroplanes for him to look at and listen to him talk about his favourite pages. He would hold his toy rabbit tight and snuggle in deep into his mother's arm. Rabbit only had one ear because David had tried setting fire to it once with the lighter stolen from Dad's cigar box. John had cried but he was a whole lot smaller then. But David had still called him 'girlie.' Over and over. 'Why is David so mean to me?' he had sobbed. 'Why did he do that to Rabbit! And he keeps calling me girlie!' And his Mom had hugged him and made things seem not quite so bad…

And because he could only use the one hand, Mom helped him make model aeroplanes with thin wood. She glued parts for him so he wouldn't make a mess. Guided his hand to paint. And even attached the finished planes to his bedroom ceiling with thin string.

One day, when the sun shone and the windows were left open, he lay on his bed, watching them bobbing and twirling against the great blue sky, just like they were real planes. And his windows were bay windows set low and he could see the sea and the distant horizon. His planes were flying over the sea… and he lay there imagining far off lands and cities across the sparkling sea… one day, he would fly over seas that shimmered blue to discover new worlds…

-oAo-

Kathy puts him to bed. When Kathy does that, he knows his parents have to go to a dinner, a party, or theatre with friends in the big town. John doesn't like it when Kathy puts him to bed. He hides in the bathroom to put on his pajamas. And Kathy always reads his bedtime story too fast. John doesn't like it when his parents go out for the night. He knows his mother doesn't like it either. She never says so. He just knows so…

And he wakes suddenly. But it is not morning yet. The room is pitch dark. He doesn't mind the dark. He knows that other kids have night lights. But John isn't afraid of the dark.

There's a line of light beneath the door. That means the landing lights are on. His parents are home now.

He can hear their voices. The voices are a long way off. But he can still hear them. Their voices are loud.

Now he is afraid in the dark.

His chest pulls heavy. And his eyes prick. He wants to cry. He has heard their loud voices before…

He throws off the bedclothes, jumps out of bed and makes for the door. He listens there with his ear to the door. He can't understand all the words and his heart pounds loud and noisy anyhow. He holds his breath and quietly opens the door and tip-toes quickly to the banisters of the landing, bobbing down, watching the hall downstairs through the railings, nose pressed hard against the wood. He is fighting the tears. He is shaking. As he always shakes when his parents argue.

He hears his mother's voice first. His mother shouldn't be shouting like this. It is not like his Mom to shout. She never shouts at him.

"I'm sorry I can't be the sort of wife you want me to be!"

"You could have least made the effort! What about those earrings I bought you?"

And the voices, though loud are now muffled. He hardly dares to breathe as he listens.

And then his mother again. She is closer.

"Perhaps that's what you get if you marry small town, huh?"

He doesn't make out his father's answer.

"Married me for my money, Patrick?"

And then John gasps and pulls back suddenly. He has heard a strange sound. A sound like smacking. He knows what has happened. It is as if he has been struck also.

"How dare you?" shouts his Mom. And she is crying too. "How dare you hit me!"

And then she is running into the hall, making for the stairs.

And John scampers quickly back to his room.

His father is calling.

"I'm sorry, Maddie! I'm sorry, please!"

But his Mom is still crying. And from his bed, John hears her bedroom door slam.

And he buries his head in his pillow. He cries angry tears into his pillow. Stifling the sounds of his sobs in the pillow. He so wants to stop the voices he has heard going over and over in his head. He so wants to go to his Mom. But this is grown up stuff. And he is so angry that his father has hit his Mom and made her cry. That he has shouted at her and made her cry. John would never do that to her. If his father were like John he would never do that. And he wishes… he wishes in the dark that he could protect her… but he isn't big enough… he isn't strong enough… he wishes things were different… one day… one day… he would be strong enough…

And John is afraid in the dark. He is going to lose her. Just like David lost his Mom. His father is going to send his Mom away. And he couldn't bear that. He just couldn't bear that…

One day he is going to be strong enough to stop all the bad things from happening…

-oAo-

He was playing in his sand pit and said to his Mom : "If you want to run away… you know you can… you don't have to worry about me… I'm big enough now…"

She laughed and put down the magazine she was reading. "Whatever brought this on?"

"I… dunno…" He wasn't about to say he'd heard things…

"No, John," and she stood and came and sat on the grass beside him and began to toy with the sand allowing the fine grains to pass between her fingers. "If I ever wanted to 'run away' as you put it, I'd always take you with me. I'd never leave you behind."

Then she knew what he was talking about.

"And anyhow, it's wrong to run from problems. You have to work things out, you know?"

And she had a faraway look. Like she wasn't talking to him. Not really.

-oAo-

Big 'A' and little 'a'. And pictures of 'A' for Apple and 'a' for acorn. But John's drawing showed an 'A' for Aeroplane and an 'a' for aircraft carrier. He couldn't read but he knew those words. A carrier came close to the coast one day and jets screeched over the cliffs like a thousand seagulls. And it seemed like the angel of Great Aunt Matilda reached out to them.

"Well, this is good, John," said the teacher, "but I _did_ ask for a picture of an apple and an acorn. Like the ones in your book. You must learn to follow instructions, John."

But it was always like that. 'P' for pilot. 'J' for jet. 'H' for helicopter. 'G' for gun or gunner. 'W' for wing. 'T' for tail. 'F' for fuselage. 'C' for cabin or cockpit. He'd learnt these words long before 'A' for apple.

"I'm going to be a pilot," he had said to David.

"You can't," David had said. "You're an heir, you can't be a pilot." But he didn't know what an heir was.

"Your son is… quite precocious, Mrs Sheppard," said his teacher. "But perhaps he should have some other interests?" And the two women smiled at him. And everything felt warm. He didn't understand. But his teacher was nice. Though his Mom was a lot nicer.

"I know what you mean. He drives me crazy sometimes."

Everything felt warm and good. His Mom held his hand tightly. She hadn't been sent away by Dad.

"I'm hungry," he complained when they were outside.

"We'll get home to lunch soon. I need to pick up a few things first."

They walked along the main street of Rockfall. Dad said they should take the car to pick up supplies or send Kathy. But Mom liked to walk she said. She liked to meet people and say 'hi'.

There were cracks in the sidewalk. He was stretching his legs to take long strides so he didn't stand on them. Coz David had said it was unlucky to stand on the cracks. And his best friend Pete had said he'd seen a man stand on a crack and the crack swallowed him whole and he was never seen again. He swore the swear word 'damn' in his head as his mother pulled him along too quickly and he accidentally stood on one that was really wide.

His picture of 'A' for aeroplane flapped in the wind so he held it tight to his side. He stopped when Mom stopped to talk to Pastor Linley. He knew he mustn't fidget now. You must never fidget next to Pastor Linley. Especially if it were Sunday. And no matter if the collar of your best shirt made your neck itch. You must be particularly careful not to spit or curse or chew gum. You must smile politely and not answer back… even if the guy did that annoying thing and patted your hair… The Pastor said that bad things happen to people that were bad… He knew the routine and held still and quiet… If he were good, he would go to heaven and be with the angels… that had wings…

A convoy of trucks went past. They were building the new highway past Rockfall and a new bridge over the river. The Pastor's wife joined them. She had a baby in a pram. The grown-ups shouted to be heard above the roar. He could feel the thundering, the thrill of the heavy engines wrapping round his tiny frame… wrapping round his heart. He could nearly imagine it was the same roar as a plane. His face was at wheel height and the dust and hot air thrown out made him blink. A truck lumbered by. A back draught. That tore his picture from his grip. Flipped 'A' for aeroplane high into the air. He twisted free from his mother's hand. And ran after it.

"John!"

And he was pushed. Far and hard. Onto his hands and knees.

New noises behind him.

A wailing horn. A dull thud. Screeching.

Silence. People screaming.

What was going on?

A smell.

The smell of bonfire and soot. Rubber burning.

He wanted to cry coz the grazes on his knees hurt so. And he couldn't see his picture. He slowly picked himself up, wincing, brushing the grit from his palms. A truck had stopped in the road. He guessed his picture was beneath it. But he couldn't see it. There were just too many people in front of the truck. There were stopped cars too. With their doors wide open. And the cab door came open on the other side of the truck and he could hear the driver get out and was shouting stuff like 'it wasn't my fault!' and was swearing. He shouldn't swear because the Pastor was nearby. Somewhere…

What was going on? And where was his Mom? He needed his Mom because someone had pushed him and his hands and knees hurt. But he wasn't going to cry. Because he had started school now and David would call him girlie. The people in front of the truck wouldn't move so he could look for his Mom. Though he could see black marks on the tarmac now where the lorry had skidded to a halt. Its tyres had given off that smell. He knew that from reading about aeroplanes. He still couldn't see his picture…

"Mom?" he called. Where was she? Just too many people. He decided to push through all those grown up legs to get back to the sidewalk. He found himself in a space in front of the truck. Pastor Linley was kneeling, looking at something on the ground.

The Pastor swore.

"For Christ's sake, take the boy away!"

But John saw the arm and hand then, stretching out from beneath the truck. Limp and lifeless. Lying in a spreading pool of blood.

And his mother's wedding ring…

-oAo-


	2. Chapter 2

Ten Thousand Things - Part Two

It rained the day they buried his mother.

He didn't cry. He didn't talk. If he said anything, he knew he would cry.

This was his fault. He was to blame. This was his fault…

Bad things happen to bad people…

Had he misbehaved too many times?

Or was it because he'd stepped on the crack in the pavement?

No. He'd stepped out into the road over a _stupid, stupid, stupid_ picture and gotten his Mom killed.

All his fault…

And he was helpless… and couldn't put it right… couldn't even say sorry…

And he was so lost… so lost without her…

Uncle Tom held a big black umbrella over him. But the cold rain was on his face. Like real tears.

Pastor Linley was speaking. But he didn't hear. He stared at the hole in the ground. Or he stared at the casket on its stand. How could Mom escape from that and go to Heaven if they put her in the ground? But he didn't dare ask. Because if he said anything, he would cry… But he really needed to know…

"It's a good spot… she'd like it there… " said Uncle Tom.

Like it in the ground? How could he say that?

It rained all afternoon.

And he sat quietly in his new stiff suit, while the grown-ups stood and chatted and were served food and stuff by waiters in the dining room. He wasn't hungry. His suit had been specially made. It already fitted too loose though. He didn't eat.

He didn't sleep either. He had bad dreams if he slept…

Strangers in his home. Relatives he didn't know. Saying nice things about his Mom. Who they didn't know… if they thought she was good, why leave her outside, all alone?... Why leave her behind in the rain?

A whispered conversation. The grown ups always whispered around him now. "I think, Patrick, you should take the boy to see someone… I could recommend you a Dr. Roderickson… best child psychiatrist in Boston… He still hasn't spoken yet? What a terrible thing to witness…"

"He'll be fine… we'll be moving… once I get things organized… already got a place picked… a new start will do him good."

It rained all afternoon.

And he sat and stared out of the window all afternoon. The rain lashing at the window. You couldn't even see the white angel of Great Aunt Matilda. But he knew where the cemetery was…

Out there in the rain. His Mom was out there in the rain. Alone. And he'd done that to her…

Tears in his eyes… so he went to the bathroom to hide…

And then...

Left the house. Quietly. Unnoticed by a backdoor.

Running…

Running faster than he'd ever ran before. Breaths fast and cutting. All the way along the short cut he knew. Climbing the cemetery fence. Not minding his suit. Not minding the cold and the wet. He just had to get there…

The casket and the hole were gone… a mound of mud…

He stood and stared. Stood and stared for ages and ages. Unaware of the cold and wet. Or the rain and the mud splattering his clothes. A cold wind blowing from the sea. Could hear the waves crashing on the beach far below. Darkness falling.

Shivering. Not caring… he deserved it… he deserved this as punishment… he had killed his Mom…

Tears now. Hot tears on his cheeks. Didn't matter now. No one could see.

He dropped to his knees, stiff with the cold and wet. Threw himself at the mound. Throwing the mud away from the mound. Digging with cold raw bare hands. Didn't care. Didn't care. He deserved it.

Sobbing into the cold, cold rain and wind.

"I'm sorry, Mom! I'm sorry for being so bad! It was my fault! It was my fault that you're here! I won't leave you! It was my fault the truck hit you! I'll be good always! I won't stand on cracks anymore! Come back! Please come back! Mom! Mom! I don't want you to be alone! I don't want you to be in the ground! I want you to come home with me! Please Mom! Please Mom, come home! Come home!... I wish I were dead instead!... I wish it were me that got hit!... I wish I was in the ground instead!... Please Mom, come home!..."

Slowly... he stopped.

Tired now. Slowly he stopped scrambling at the mud. He was getting nowhere. He was too small. He lay there. Quiet now. A cheek against the mud. Tired now. Hands numb now. Teeth chattering. Shoulders shivering violently. The rain and mud soaking through to his skin. With effort, he wiped his nose and eyes on a muddy sleeve.

If his Mom were alive, she would hug him and make him warm again…

"Just come home… please… please… just come home…"

Darkness all around.

And he's falling asleep where he lays...

But there's distant shouts. Calling. Beams of torchlight coming from the house cutting through the silver night rain. Scanning. Searching. Closer and closer. He looked up as the light of one caught the statue face of the white angel. Rain as tears there…

Light flickered across the outstretched hands. They seemed to offer comfort. A hug. But he knew the hands were cold and hard. Not like Mom's…

Light flickered across its wings. Perhaps they gave his Mom wings… perhaps somehow she could fly to Heaven… and that wouldn't be so bad… that would be better than being left behind in the dirt… he couldn't understand how it would work… one day, he would be a pilot and fly her there…

-oAo-

He spent two days in hospital. It was a long word. Exhaustion. He had a cold too. His chest hurt. They said he was lucky not to have pneumonia. Another long word. He slept most of the time. But he hated feeling so sick when he was awake. He hated it that his Mom wasn't there to bring him chocolate. The nurses fussed over him though. They said he was brave. And Uncle Tom brought him a new teddy bear. He would have preferred Rabbit.

He wanted to ask Uncle Tom a question. He daren't ask his Dad. You kept secrets from Dad. Like wanting to be a pilot. And he daren't ask David because David would laugh. He wanted to ask Uncle Tom if you get turned into an angel when you get put in the ground when you die. Was it some sort of magic? Did God do that? But only if you were good? But Uncle Tom looked sad so he daren't ask Uncle Tom either. Aunt Clarrie was sick also and hadn't been able to come to the funeral.

"Is Aunt Clarrie ok?" he asked instead.

"Yes. She is now," said Uncle Tom.

"She found her baby again?" David had said she'd nearly lost her baby. John couldn't understand how you could _nearly_ lose something. You either did or you didn't. He didn't even know Aunt Clarrie had a baby. She didn't seem to have a baby in a pram like Mrs. Linley.

"She's ok," said Uncle Tom. "She was just very unhappy when your mother died."

They fell silent.

"Am… am I bad, Uncle Tom?" And he could feel the tears pricking at his nose.

"What makes you say that?" And his uncle seemed surprised he'd asked this question.

"Bad things happen to bad people, don't they?"

"Bad things just happen, John. You'll understand that when you grow up."

"When I grow up, I'm going to be a pilot!"

"Good on you!" And his uncle gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder and he felt loads better already.

"Don't tell Dad though."

"No. I guess its best to keep that a secret."

"Why doesn't Dad visit?"

"He did yesterday, didn't he?"

And John shook his head.

"Perhaps you were asleep. He's got so much to see to at the moment."

"It's not coz…" and tears filled John's eyes and he struggled to get his words out… "its not coz he thinks… Mom dying is… my fault? David said that Dad thinks it's my fault."

"No, no, John. I think David's just being a nasty big brother again. No, John… But is that what you think? That it's your fault? Listen, John…" and Uncle Tom took John's hand in his own big hand and gave it a tight squeeze. "Your Mom died because she loved you. You remember that, son. You never forget that…"

-oAo-

His Mom wasn't home and the house by the sea seemed empty.

Sometimes it was too easy to forget she had died and he expected her to be there working in the kitchen or he expected her to call his name for lunch.

Other times… he saw skid marks on a tarmac road and a pool of blood… a hand… no matter what room he was in…

Nightmares. And crying alone in the darkness. Forever seeing the tears of a white angel in the darkness.

David kept away from him and played with his friends more.

He didn't go back to school. There was little point as they were moving soon and he'd be sent to a new school.

He was alone in the house. The doors were kept locked though he could ask Kathy for the key and she'd go with him if he wanted to play in the garden. He was told he mustn't go to the cemetery unless he went with his father. He mustn't go there… He mustn't do that again… If he did, he knew his father would take him to Boston to see the special doctor… so he did as he was told.

They visited the grave and left fresh flowers just once more before they moved. John guessed his Mom must have gone for an angel by now.

There was a stone slab marking the grave now. With his mother's name. And John's thought that it wasn't very big. And he wished it was a whole lot bigger.

They removed the old withered brown wreaths. One was heart shaped, tacked with a moulding label. 'From your loving son, John.' He knew those words. He was reading alone now and teaching himself new words. He didn't remember the wreath. It had been chosen for him. But why give flowers when you are dead and are being changed into an angel by God? Did they take the flowers with them? No. Because the wreaths were dead too and went onto the gardener's bonfire…

He was never taken to his mother's grave anymore after that…

Aunt Clarrie and Uncle Tom sent prezzies or spoke on the phone. There were never visits. He never dared to ask why.

Their new house was a ranch and he missed the sea that was so big and empty and full of space and sky above. He missed the jets that flew in close over the cliffs.

And every time it rained at night, which wasn't often, it felt like… it felt like his Mom was still out there somewhere, all alone in the cold and wet and dark. Left behind. Thousands of miles away. And he so longed to hold her or for her to put her arms around him and hug him again.

They had racing stables with thoroughbreds and Dad bought him his own horse. Which was fun. He guessed. It kept him out of the house. They had a pool so they could swim safely. Dad gave him everything he wanted. They took skiing holidays in Colorado. They took surfing holidays on Maui. Usually at apartments and cabins of Dad's friends. And Dad was always on the phone or taking drinks with his buddies. When John was old enough, an airstrip was installed and Dad bought him his first Cessna and paid for an instructor. Which was fun too.

John was never at home much anyway. Both he and David were sent away to school. And he really did learn there that it wasn't alright to cry. Grown ups called it character building. And you didn't talk about your Mom. It was plain girlie.

Those things were now buried deep in the mud of a cold rainy night…

-oAo-

He's home on vacation. But not for long if he can help it. A Civil Air Patrol weekend is approaching. He's looking forward to it. They're going to be allowed a go up in the gliders. During term time, he doesn't get the chance to be with the CAP guys. He much prefers their company than that of the dickhead sons of the rich he meets at school. He has a couple of really close friends at school but other than that…

And the weekend will get him out of the damned house.

He's in the kitchen at the breakfast bar, drinking a glass of water and reading a newspaper. His friends kid him about that, about keeping current with world affairs but he finds it interesting so he puts up with the jibes. He's more serious than they are, he knows that. They know that and they respect him for it.

His father walks in and makes for the coffee machine.

John doesn't acknowledge him. Doesn't even raise his head from his paper. Tries to read. Pretends to read.

Can't leave the room. That would be too obvious.

He's aware his father is leaning against the counter, scrutinizing him.

"I didn't know…" began his father eventually. He knows his father is only trying to be friends, but John won't have it.

"What?" says John bluntly, hardly looking up. He's really not interested in what his father has to say.

"I didn't know... when did you have your hair cut so short?" John had done that. For his interview. "I hadn't noticed..." his father finishes.

"Been too busy, huh?" John throws back at him. And they're going to argue again, already. And John knows it's his fault to start this but he really doesn't care.

"That's hardly fair, John! You spend all your time in your room-"

"-Are you sure? Do you know that?" And John stands abruptly to leave.

"Hey! Don't go on my account!" says his father, indicating the unfinished newspaper.

"I've read it."

"Then at least put your glass away in the washer," says his father coldly. And his father's good. He's keeping his cool. He's not going to rise to the bait that easily. They've played this routine too many times before.

John picks up the glass with bad grace and noisily opens the dishwasher's door, while his father pours out a coffee.

"I meant to tell you when you got back… I'm having guests round this weekend… important clients… they're bringing their wives and kids with them… I want you and David to be here…"

"Want to play happy families, huh? Think they've come to the wrong house!" And John slams the door shut.

"John!"

"Will… what's her name again?... will _she _be coming?!" John knew her name. Nisha. Dad's fiancée. Fifteen years his dad's junior. He knew her name but he wasn't about to say it.

"Is that what this is all about?" Yeah. _Now_. But it never ever took much anyway to row with his Dad. But this was a biggie… "I think after ten years alone I deserve-" But John didn't want to hear the sordid details.

"-This weekend? No can do… Got a CAP weekend."

"CAP?"

No. His father never does remember these things so he explains.

"Civil Air Patrol. Remember I'm a cadet? We have an activity weekend."

"Are you sure you told me?"

"You signed the check."

"Hey... playing at soldiers! You can cancel!"

"No. I've just been promoted." And it's taken him forever to get the points because he could only do this out of school time. "Duties have been assigned. I promised. I'm not letting anyone down."

"So it's fine to let _me_ down?!" John sighs and goes to leave the room again. He's tired of this now. "Yeah, well… I guess I know the answer to that…" says his Dad. But he persists, following John. "There are times you know, when you have to do your duty and not indulge in some… some hobby…"

John stops at the door and doesn't turn. He is hurting now. Hurting nearly as much as the time he found out his dad was to re-marry.

"This_ is_ my duty," he says tightly.

"Oh _come on_! It's not like you're going to join the damned Air Force!"

John is silent. Still doesn't turn. Lets the old man work it out…

"Holy… you've got to be kidding me!" The sound of his father slamming his cup down hard on the counter. "The Air Force! You are _not_ going into the Air Force! I don't understand this?! Six months! Six months we've been arguing over Stanford or Harvard? And I thought we'd got it all sorted out… And now you pull this stunt?! You don't have to! I've got room for you in the business. Law. Law at Harvard. That's the way to go. I've been making enquiries already-"

"-Pulling strings, you mean?" John half turns in the doorway, savagely glaring at his father.

"Your mother's family-"

"-Don't you dare bring her into this!" He's angry now. Facing his father really angry. He's breathing fast and furious. His Dad's going to use his mother's name to influence things? His Dad just doesn't get it.

"Yeah, I've been asking around! What's so wrong about that?!"

"You don't _know_?!"

"What's wrong with you? This some sort of pay back for Nisha? Anyhow… you can forget it!… you can't do this without my say so-"

"-It's done. I report to Colorado Springs Academy in the new year." Of course, he doesn't tell his Dad that he forged his signature. "You should be proud. They don't just let anyone in."

His father simply stares at him. The name means nothing to him. It means nothing to him that John can still get his degree. Air Force ideals. 'Integrity First'. 'Service Before Self'. 'Excellence In All We Do'. These mean nothing to his father.

"Look, you have your plane… I understand it if you want to fly… hell, John, if you play your cards right, you could own your own damned airline… But the Air Force! You don't even like rules and regulations!... Hmm… not mine anyhow!…" And then his father loses all patience. He's not going to win this battle.

"You do this and you can kick your allowance good-bye!"

"Blackmail, Dad? Is that a business thing I should know about?!"

"And if you don't stay home this weekend you can say goodbye to the Cessna too!"

"Fuck you!"

And John turns and runs for the staircase in the hall beyond the door, taking two steps at a time upwards.

He feels as if his father has hit him. And he can't explain why.

_It's not alright to cry. It's not alright to cry._

He remembers his mother running away from an argument upstairs so, so long ago...

"That's right John, run away! Is this what this Air Force thing is all about?! Running away?! Running away from duty and responsibility!"

He doesn't hear the rest. He's in his room. Leaning back against the door. Eyes closed. Fumbles for the lock behind him and shoots the bolt home. Grateful though that his father doesn't follow him. He's tired of the arguments. 'After everything, I've done for you…' or 'it's never been easy bringing up two boys on my own…' If John were into drugs and stuff, then he'd understand it… He clenches his teeth. Fighting the tears.

But is he running?

It keeps coming back to him. His mother's body under the truck. Her hand. Her blood.

He lost his friend that day. She understood him.

…And he'd ran and ran. A little boy lost. Running through the streets of Rockfall until he could run no more and had collapsed, sliding down a wall. He couldn't cry. He held his own arms tightly because the arms that should have comforted him were no more. She'd told him to be careful on the roads and he hadn't been. He was horrified at what he'd done. 'I hate you! I hate you!' he began shouting. Thumping his own arms until it hurt. 'I hate you! I hate you!' Thumping, punching his thighs until it hurt. Thumping away the hurt. But the picture in his head of the pool of blood and the lifeless hand wouldn't go. It just wouldn't go. It just wouldn't go. It was never ever going to go away…

He wipes away the tears because it's alright to cry…

He's quickly re-packing his hold-all. He hasn't a clue where he'll go. A motel until the CAP starts. And then to Tom and Clarrie's. He's been to see them a couple of times. They'd said they didn't want to come between him and his father. But if he ever needn't help, then there was room at their house.

But is he running?

He zips up the holdall and flings on a jacket.

Yeah. He'd go back home… go back to Rockfall...

-oAo-

They were allowed a room and he guessed even now, his father had been throwing his weight around and making demands. John wasn't about to argue though. He'd been bawled at enough by his superiors in the past few weeks. He didn't need his father to put in his ten cents worth. But he had a feeling, this meeting would probably be all about dishing it out, Patrick Sheppard style.

He saw his father's glance, seconds before he veiled it over with savage disapproval.

John wasn't vain but he knew how well he could look in his dress uniform, because, well… he always ensured that he did. And his father… John was certain he hadn't misread it… there'd been pride there… why the fuck could his Dad never say, never show it?

The room was bare except for two chairs, a table, a notice board pinned with the fire drill, a torn leaflet on where to get help if you needed legal representation and another on careers in the USAF which seemed strangely out of place but he guessed it filled the space.

Neither of the two sat. John checked himself finding he was nearly standing to attention and tried relaxing his shoulders. He supposed it had become sort of habitual over the last few days of his court martial… or it was just the effect of his Dad being there...

His Dad turned away to face the board, almost in contempt. He really couldn't bear to look at his son? And John, when he thought about it, preferred it that way.

"Well, you've messed up this time-why did you do it?"

And why had it taken his father so long to ask?… and did he really care?… John was convinced that by 'messed up' his father was talking in terms of promotion prospects… nothing to do with the fact John had failed to save Holland.

"I was trying to save a friend." His defence before his father. His defence before the court. It's all he could offer. His father was straight onto his next question, turning slightly. John doubted he had even heard the reply.

"Your lawyer any good? You want me to find you another?"

"No. It's fine."

"For God's sake, John, leave all this! You don't need this crap! I could buy you out to tomorrow!"

"I said I'm fine."

"Perhaps they'll do you a favour and throw you out."

"Then you can save your money," replied John acidly. His father just glared at him.

"And Nancy's leaving you too? What the fuck happened there?"

And he really was standing to attention now. Questions and answers. This really was a little hearing room all of their very own. His advisor had said: stick to the facts. Be brief. And he was doing no more than that here. It'd be hopeless to do any more than that. He wanted to tell his Dad that what went on between him and Nancy was their own damn business. And he wanted his father to… well, perhaps say something along the lines of 'hey, that sucks.' Sympathy. But what went on between him and Nancy had always seemed to be nothing but his dad's business. He'd introduced them to each other. Even at the wedding, the' right' people had to be there. And he was no sooner back from his first tour of duty after marrying her, than Nancy seemed to be repeating everything that his Dad was saying… go for a desk job… get into Washington… it felt like… and he hated himself for thinking this but he knew exactly what his father was capable of… it felt like his father's manipulative hand at work again…

"She wanted me home more."

"So?... What's so wrong with that? I thought that not being home was supposed to be my mistake? You've told me enough times."

"It'd be a desk job. I want to fly."

"Then you're a selfish bastard! And I don't blame Nancy for leaving you!" John hadn't a second to react when his father was off again. "You think they're going to let you fly after this anyhow? For God's sake, grow up, stop pouting and get in the real world! Look, I know some names… I could get you off the hook… but tell me why I should?... When you came back home... I thought we could make a go of it… father and son… how it should be… what is it with you!... It's like…" and Patrick shook his head, "sometimes its like you blame me for your mother dying!"

John froze at the mention of his mother's name. Still reeling from the kick that had been in his father's words.

Patrick had turned slightly. And John saw the hurt before his father turned back to the wall again, silent and apologetic.

And that's how it always was between him and his father? The fact of his mother's death was always going to be a barrier between the two? It always seemed to come back to his mother. And he wished her name hadn't been brought up… certainly not in this dismal little back room… but her name had always seemed to be in their arguments… if not said, then felt… no… he didn't blame his father… not for her death… how could he?... when all that was firmly on his own doorstep… but he did blame his father for making her unhappy… he knew that… remembered that after all these years… was he really one to hold a grudge for so long?... from the time when he and his father had met again at the wedding of Tom and Clarrie's daughter, John had tried to put it all behind him… but he guessed he couldn't after all…

"Dad…"

But his father was moving across the room, making for the door. There were tears in his eyes. There were tears in an old man's eyes...

"If you hate me so much…" said his Dad, "then I suppose, I'll just have to get out of your life."

And he was gone.

-oAo-

David opened the door and without saying a word, invited him in. John had noticed at the wake that nothing had changed in the house. Furniture, paintings were pretty much as they had been when he'd last been here. And there's a pang deep down. Once… all this had been a part of the home beside the sea. And looking at it all now… well, it was his father's tastes… he'd never been aware of the fact till now… there was little here to suggest his mother… though he vaguely remembered Nancy once saying something along those lines...

David led the way into his father's study. There were boxes everywhere. Some empty. Most half-filled. Others full and labelled. Neat and tidy. David had clearly been busy sorting through their father's stuff. Always the methodical guy.

David invited him to take a seat on the red leather couch. And he instantly pulled a face at his bruises as he sat. That Replicator he'd met up with earlier in the day really had been none too gentle on him…

He felt awkward as hell, leaning forward, already fidgeting with the cuffs of his navy jacket, because… if he were truthful with himself, he didn't really want to be here… especially after yesterday when he and David nearly had words… heck, they _did_ have words… at their father's wake for Pete's sake… so… this was all about making amends… and it was going to be tough… after all, hadn't he just done a disappearing act and entirely missed his father's funeral?

David had gone to the drinks tray on a cabinet.

"You still drink Scotch?" he asked, holding up the bottle.

John nodded bleakly. And David poured out two drinks. Yeah. They were probably both going to need Dutch courage before long.

"You not driving then? Cab coming back?" said David handing him his glass and sitting in one of the large armchairs.

"Yeah. An hour."

"An hour? Sure you can spare the time?"

John stood instantly, putting down his untouched drink on the coffee table, surprising even himself at his sudden reaction. "I didn't come here to fight!"

"Hey, hey, hey, don't be so prickly! Sit down. What do you expect? Honestly? You're hardly in town thirty minutes and you're already off on some… "secret" mission!" John slowly sat back down again. And David sipped his whisky, eyeing him up, almost amused. That he'd already riled his little brother. Just like old times…

"Though I confess to being a little mystified. They told me you were working abroad and it might take time for my message about Dad getting through and then for you to get back. And yet you turn up for the wake on time. Suddenly I get told you need to be gone again and yet here you are, as if by magic… You couldn't possibly have been abroad this time?... and it's been noted, that's conveniently _after_ father's interment… _And then_… you don't expect any fallout?"

"I got tied up," confessed John lamely, picking up his own drink, swallowing, wincing, letting the liquor work.

"Well, I thought I was obsessive with work. That Dad was. But we're not a patch on you, Johnny boy!" And he offered his glass by way of a salute.

"I'm sure no one missed me," said John, looking down, running a finger absently round the rim of his drink.

"True. A little weird, however, that the second chief mourner was the youngest son's ex-wife, remarried…"

"It'd be no different if I'd been dead." He didn't know why he'd blurted that one out. Something that David had said the day before. That they didn't know if John were ever coming back... if he were alive or not… That it was as if he'd disappeared from the face of the Earth…

"But you're not…"

"No."

"But you could have been?"

John shrugged. And realization spread across David's face.

"Your… "work" is so dangerous? I didn't think I saw those bruises yesterday…" He sipped more whisky. "Are you trying to tell me you're some kind of spy?"

Spy. Yes. It was close enough…

"You been talking to Nancy?" John guessed.

"She did phone, yeah…"

"I can't say."

"If you did, you'd have to kill me, huh?" And John managed a slight smile. "Oh hell, John! My kid brother! Who'd have thought it?! Well, I guess they have to be someone's son… someone's brother…"

There's an uncomfortable silence.

"So… why _did_ you come? Not to contest the will, you said that… and not out of respect surely?"

And John had asked that question himself a hundred times over. He supposed it might be some of the latter. He supposed it was duty. He supposed it was regret over missed opportunities to put things right between a father and son. And if the dead could hear, he supposed he was sorry. But so many bad memories had been stirred up, he couldn't be. Not truthfully. He supposed initially he'd felt shocked… _his _father dying… somehow he'd gotten this picture in his head of an embittered old man who always had an opposing point of view to his own… and dying never seemed to come into that picture… his father had seemed untouchable… to think that he'd gone through something as _human_ as facing death… and then the thought… was he confusing his mother's with his father's death… somehow they had both died to him when he was young?... Both parents… and he'd never had the chance to say goodbye…

"I dunno…" he said honestly.

John threw back his head and finished his whisky and noticed then the family photo hanging over the mantel. Patrick. Maddie. Two young boys. He was sure it'd never been there before. All photos and pictures of his mother were put away after her death. Though John was never certain whether that was to save his feelings. Later, he tended to think it was so as not to scare off potential candidates for his mother's replacements such as Nisha. He can't hardly remember the photo being taken.

"That wasn't put out for my benefit?" he asked, indicating with his head, desperate for some small talk.

"That? No. He put it up when he had his first heart attack."

"Got sentimental in his old age, huh?"

"As some guys get cynical in theirs?"

"Ouch," said John accepting the criticism. And then… perhaps it was the whisky talking and he felt more forthcoming… though he had to talk about something… He was playing with his empty glass and said softly "He never loved her, you know…"

"How can we ever say? We were just kids." But John remembered the arguments.

"The marriage would never have… lasted… if…" and he found this difficult to say. " If she had lived…"

"Marriages never do… least not in this family."

"You haven't married?" John hadn't noticed a ring.

"A lovely lady called Amanda. Didn't last. I even hit on Nancy once. Despite what you thought, she was quite a catch."

"What happened?"

"She preferred Grant."

"That must have hurt." David stood and offered to fill John's glass again. John shook his head. He preferred a clearer head than this. David poured his drink and then offered a toast.

"Well, here's to Patrick Sheppard. Looks like he's not going to get an heir after all!"

"It's not too late…" he meant that as encouragement to David. John having a family was out of the question. Having a partner was unthinkable.

"You haven't?..."

John shook his head. "There's no one."

"And not left any broken hearts all over the globe?... No… Look. I'm forty five."

"Dad was older when he married Nisha."

"And that lasted how long? Eight months. That was an expensive marriage… That cost the business a lot of dough… Besides…lets be realistic, I'm too much like the old man. I've got too many of those Sheppard genes in me… what sort of father do you think I'd turn out to be?"

David was being critical of their father? "I didn't think you and Dad had a problem."

"Well, we didn't, I guess. And you want to know why? Because I toed the line. Did as I was told. Good ole dependable David. Things would have been a whole lot different if I'd run away and joined, say, the circus."

"You wanted to join the circus?" John smiled again.

"Yeah! Yeah, I did!" This had to be the drink. "You don't remember? Circus came to Rockfall one year. I'm surprised you don't remember? I mean… nothing ever happened in Rockfall… sorry…" He was apologising for Maddie's death. "Anyhow, the clowns scared you shitless! I don't know what was so funny – you being scared or the clowns." John was vaguely starting to recall that day. So that's why he never liked clowns? "You had candyfloss you see. Larger than your head. And the clowns came real close and fired a gun at you that squeaked. Well, we all expected you to hide in Maddie's arms, but you just stood up and jammed the whole candyfloss in his face. Trouble is, the stick went in the guy's eye. And he hollered out. And that's when you started to cry. The audience were laughing their heads off because they thought it was all part of the act. But we were asked to leave and it's a wonder the clown didn't sue you for damages… anyway, I wanted to run away and join the circus, but you see… I didn't have a mother to push my dreams for me… no more than you… we were both on our own, John. Both of us." And he sat down, morose and defeated.

John had come to talk but somehow, this was David. This was all David's moment. Even if it was the whisky loosening his tongue, this was David affected by his childhood too.

David tipped the armchair back dangerously. "You know if you really wanted to analyse stuff… and the guy's dead now so it doesn't matter… you know why he didn't like you… didn't _seem_ to like you… that's why you kept away?... you reminded him too much of her, of Maddie… oh no, not the looks… he couldn't control her…he couldn't control you… Here I am… a captain of industry and all that. But you were always stronger. You stood up to him. I guess you knew what you wanted out of life more. Whereas I simply followed the family pattern, without thinking. In the end, you know, it earned you more respect." And he tilted the chair forward again.

"David-"

"-Don't get me wrong. I'm not bitter. I'm not. I guess if I did think about it, this _is_ all I ever wanted. But… it would have been nice to have been appreciated. I know he never thought of you as a failure whatever you may have thought to the contrary. His view of me?" And he shrugged and stood making for the drink's tray again.

"Sure you won't have another?"

"No."

"Back on duty soon, huh?"

"Yeah."

He returned to his chair and leaned forward.

"You got him all wrong," he said suddenly and earnestly.

"I… I don't think I did."

"In the last days, we got to talk. A lot. About stuff I didn't think I'd ever hear him say. How it was difficult for him when Maddie died. He didn't know how to be both parents for you. He knew his failings. He couldn't be Maddie too. Especially the way things happened. Living with you was like walking on eggshells. No one knew whether you would break. Everyone said you should be sent to a shrink. But he said 'how could a six year old deal with that on top of everything else?' In the end, he left it to you… to your own strength… But the message he must have given, by selling the beach house, moving, sending you away to school was… just pull yourself together and snap out of it…"

"It… it was just an old man talking… How I remember it, he didn't particularly notice I existed until I was fourteen and started pulling in good grades." And then he was falling over himself to see where he could push John into.

David leaned back and took a further swig of drink. "If that's what you want to believe… you've every right… I'm just repeating what was said…"

He stood and walked to the window and looked out.

"You said yesterday that you didn't want to claim your inheritance… you hated him so much for what he stood for and because he hated you joining the Air Force?"

"Those would be two very good reasons, but… you know… hate… I don't think… hate's a pretty strong word…" There was that third reason. He knew his father didn't love his mother. He remembered the arguments. As a child though, everything was so black and white. And it was so easy to judge when reality is grey…

John stood also and put his hands in his pockets. He toyed with the idea of coming to the window too but so much of this conversation was painfully uncomfortable. So much of the past was being raked up and so much of this he'd just spent the last twenty years trying to forget. Atlantis. The Air Force had helped with all that. Both poles apart from his background. And then that memory again. His father accusing him of running away. Did he do that? Did he join the Air Force to run away? Was he still doing that?

"I told you yesterday, I won't take my share of the company… I understand that you put a lot of work into keeping the business going… I won't take that away from you. And I'm… not that interested."

"All very commendable, little brother. You could be a sleeping partner, you know. And as to your share, technically it's _all_ yours anyway. Nothing that would probably stand up in a court of law. You know that Dad set up the company using Maddie's money?"

"No… I didn't know…"

"When she married, she made a will leaving everything to Dad, and never got round to renewing it in your favour. There was the trust fund, of course. And that paid for your education. And you received the rest when you married Nancy? If the marriage of Maddie and Dad was so shaky, why didn't she do that? I sometimes ask... I don't think it's ever been mentioned to you, the Kirkwoods owned real estate in New York, right at the time the scrapers started going up and most ended up in the hands of your Aunt Matilda, who went a little crazy on the charity road. Perhaps, she'd seen what money does. There were two suicides in the family following Wall St. Anyhow, some pretty substantial sums still managed to filter down to other family members… Tom… Maddie."

"I didn't realise…" _Married me for my money, Patrick?_

"Dad was thinking of you when he wanted you to take over the business… he saw it as your birthright, you know… not as a Sheppard, but as a Kirkwood… Perhaps he should have said…"

"It wouldn't have made any difference…"

"No. No. I guess not. He left it to me because… well, things get messy splitting it up and like I said, we never knew if you were ever coming back. But he said… if you ever wanted in… I was to offer you a partnership…"

"I don't want it."

"No. I can see that and… I'm… sorry for yesterday… jumping in there… mouthing off… accusing you of… you were never like that… I should have known…" And he finished his drink and continued to stare out of the window.

John still with his hands in his pockets, rocked on his feet wondering what to say next. His hour was running out.

"You think Dad married her for her fortune?" he asked.

"If that's what you want to believe… all sounds very melodramatic and Victorian to me… she was a good catch, sure. But she was good looking… you mentioned the photo?... you haven't any? I'll sort you something out…"

"No… keep them… I have nowhere… ok… just one…"

"Spies travel light, huh?"

David walked over to desk and then reached for something. A bunch of keys. He threw them over to John who clumsily caught them up against his chest.

"The beach house. It's yours. Take it. I'm sure even spies need a place to retire to. And a pension. I'll arrange you a pension. I can't imagine a Colonel's pension amounts to much. Sorry… I didn't mean to be…"

Condescending was the word David was looking for.

John looked down at the keys in his hand. Some were labelled. Back door. Back Gate. Garage One. Garage Two. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember all this…

"The beach house? I thought he'd sold it."

"It came on the market again a couple of years ago. So he bought it. I guess he did get sentimental in his old age after all. He never went there though. I suppose you can have too many memories, huh? The lawyers can send your lawyer the deeds. It's rented out at the moment. I can recommend the agent we're using. They're good. You can sell it if you want to. Your prerogative." And David coughed. He could see how knocked back John was by all of this. John hadn't been expecting this. The beach house… " I'll get that photo for you…" And he started to rummage in one of the boxes.

John looked at his watch. David was aware of the movement and straightened up.

"Hour up?" He opened an album he'd removed from the box and started flicking through the pages.

"Nearly." David found what he was looking for, slipped it out of the page and handed it over. John as a boy and his mother sitting on the white wooden steps leading down to the beach. Her arm around him. All smiles. His heart lurched and he tried to hide what he knew his face must be showing. _It's not alright to cry._ "I had a new camera for a birthday. It's one of mine. Not tainted with the old man…" David smiled wryly.

"Thanks," and John slipped it into his top jacket pocket, still holding onto the keys. Uncertain.

"So. How long are you going to run away for this time?"

"Running?"

"Yeah… metaphorical, you know… think you might make it back sometime to help chose a memorial stone?" No. He shouldn't really be leaving everything to David. But like he'd said to Ronon the day before, David was good at managing things.

"I… I have a plane waiting…" The Daedalus waiting to beam him up. So far removed from all this. And he's not running. Not anymore. These are just memories. "The stone…"

"Yeah… I know… I'll see to it."

"Thanks," he said, hoarsely this time.

David leaned against the desk with one hip and folded his arms, looking John up and down. But John's gaze was to the window, away from his brother's, his hands absently playing with the keys in his hand.

"Though saying that… about the running… one mention of the beach house and you want to leave… I'd call that running. You can't even decide whether to hand those keys right back, can you? Still blame yourself for Maddie's death after all this time?"

"He always blamed me…" And that was more of a thought out loud than a response to David.

"You were only a kid at the time, how could he?"

"You told me he'd said that."

"And I was only a kid too. Gonna hold that against me forever?" And David straightened up sighing. "Dad always said you joined the Air Force to run away."

"I always wanted to be a pilot. It was no secret. Except to him…" If his father had ever gotten to know him, then it wouldn't have been a secret to him either.

"Yeah. And I wanted to be a clown…"

"When I left home… I did just that… left. I didn't need an excuse…"

"True. But don't…"

"What?" He was feeling antagonistic now. He knew that but couldn't stop.

"Hey, just some brotherly advice here! Don't blame yourself for what happened to Maddie. It's been too long now. It's still eating you up… I can see that…" His brother saw things. He didn't get to be where he was without noticing the other guy.

"It's complicated… other people…" Colonel Sumner. Ford. Elizabeth. All those life signs on computer screens that had blipped out. All those faces on vid, all those voices on radios that had disappeared and had become nothing more than white noise. He hadn't been able to protect any of them. All had joined Maddie now. A long list of blame. But it's not like his brother thinks. He's had to learn to put all the ghosts behind him. He's just had to. He wouldn't function otherwise. _It's not alright to_ _cry…_

His brother leaned back on the desk again, an expression quizzing him, asking him to carry on, to open up, but he couldn't. His brother was still essentially a total stranger after all.

"Shit! John… what've you been doing?"

The sound of car tyres on the gravel outside saved him from any explanation.

"I have to go…" and flustered, _this was him flustered?_ he dropped the keys into a pocket.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. They're early? Guess you told them earlier rather than later…" John ignored the remark and David stood and showed him out to the hall, opening the front door.

"Keep in touch, John." And he offered a hand and patted John on the arm. Which John awkwardly returned. "For what it's worth, I'm here if you need me, someone to talk to… I know I haven't had much of a track record that way… but I'm not really a bad guy once you get to know me… I do understand that you've had to make sacrifices… to do your job… and if that keeps us all safe at night then I'm not knocking it… and yeah, we're all grateful for that…"

"You'll make president yet," and John was able to smile as he stepped away.

"Does sound pretty corny, huh? But… take care. You're the only family I have now… and…" he shrugged, "I figure it's the Scotch making me say these things but… you don't realise how important that is to me…"

"Yeah. Yeah. Same here… bye David."

_And David dares him to climb the white stairs. 'You scared, John?' 'No.' _

And even now, he's not scared… not of physical things…

_What are you running from? his father asks._

Ghosts that won't stay dead.

He carries a photo in his pocket that lies like a cold lead weight against his heart.

He carries keys to a house that is full of memories.

And his father had been right to take him away… but it was running all the same… and he's been running ever since… trying his damn hardest to forget…

-oAo-


	3. Chapter 3

Ten Thousand Things - Part Three

He wakes. Forcing his eyes open quickly. Ready… because hell! _Kolya_…

But he's going nowhere fast.

His hands are tied. His feet are tied. And rope binds him to a tree.

He's not going to get away this time. And the grey blur that is Kolya tells him so…

He struggles to speak. His jaw hurts where the Genii guard slugged him. Speaking spins shots of pain deep into his skull.

Kolya's alive. Somehow...

Now Kolya wants Atlantis. He wants John to give him his IDC.

"Go to hell!" spits out John.

Kolya puts on leather gloves and he's raining down punches hard across John's face and hard into his stomach.

And John takes it. He won't cry out. He takes the pain. Each cutting blow that bloodies up his face. Each stabbing blow to his guts that takes away breath. This is Kolya's revenge. Kolya knows he won't be getting that code. It's revenge...

No. It's punishment. And John takes it all.

Kolya mocks him. "Half the time you can't protect your people. But still you keep on trying… Your past failures drive you on…"

And the words hurt as much as the blows.

"And you can't protect your people now." He's going to find a way to get to Atlantis. Everyone on Atlantis is as good as dead.

And John knows the words are true. There's nothing he can do. He's allowed himself to get caught. He's helpless, tied up to a damn tree. He can't protect them. He can't even protect himself.

And the thought hurts as much as the blows.

That he can't protect the people he cares about.

That he can't always keep them from harm.

He's as helpless as a child…

Kolya says he doesn't need the IDC. He'll just use the Jumper. But he needs the Ancient gene. And Kolya's not beaten by that either. John's fuzzy brain can't work it out. Kolya threatens him again.

"You're gonna wish you'd given me the IDC."

But John is determined. He'll do whatever it takes to stop Kolya. If stubbornness is his only weapon then so be it. He can do stubborn. If he loses his life… he can do that too…

Kolya's two guards cut the ropes and drag him over to Kolya. He's forced to his knees. They each take an arm, holding them out wide and tight. And he can do nothing. He's helpless. He has no strength left to fight them. He has no strength left to struggle even. Kolya pulls out a large knife. This is it then. But Kolya could have finished him against the tree.

"One last chance, Johnny boy. You gonna give me that IDC?"

David. David used to call him Johnny boy.

He stares at Kolya. This can't be happening... This can't be happening...

"Thought not."

He watches Kolya raise the knife above his left hand and the blade swishes down through the air…

_His mother's hand lies in a pool of blood and he can do nothing to bring her back…._

_No…no…no… she can't be dead… this can't be happening... she's dead and he's to blame…_

_One day he'll be a pilot and take her for an angel…_

He comes round…

No…

His hand…

No…

It's difficult to breath because of the pain. The world tips up with the nausea. And his brain can't comprehend… where's his hand?… why his hand? And its crazy but he wonders why Kolya has taken the trouble to bandage the stump. Why not just kill him? Why not just let him bleed to death?

Kolya wants to goad him some more? He wants John to feel even more helpless?

"Why risk your life defending people in another galaxy? You have a death wish? Or you're running?"

_What are you running from? asks his father._

_I wish I were dead! cried the little boy in the darkness of a cold rainy night. I wish it were me! I wish I was in the ground instead of you!_

The blackness threatens again. The sound of Kolya's voice cuts through. "You couldn't even protect those two scientists."

_But he is weak. He is only a small child. _

He tries to concentrate. Kolya has used his hand for genetic material to operate the Jumper. Why do that? Why not just take John to the Jumper? Why all this? Kolya's revenge. Kolya's torture to prove how weak John is… but John knows he's weak… he's never been able to protect everyone… the list is getting longer… its always getting longer and he lives in fear of that… more than he fears death…

He won't be beaten… he's gonna try one more time… loss of a hand won't stop him… Kolya might think it… but it won't… he's faced worse things…

He crawls away as Kolya talks. Hides. His life may be ruined. He may never fly again. But no way are these guys going to take Atlantis. He's not going to let that happen. There are people he cares about on Atlantis. He kills six guards. And Kolya is next. He's going to make sure of Kolya this time.

He's taken a gun from a dead Genii guard. He aims it at Kolya. And fires. And Kolya gets off shots too before he falls though he misses. John runs to that spot…What the hell? The Genii isn't there… then suddenly he's tackled from behind… and John can't fight… not with the one hand… he's helpless again… over and over… out of control… and it's John falling over the top of the cliff as Kolya lets go… falling like… catches at a root… hanging there… _like the white steps down to the beach_… looking down… struggles to pull himself up… but he can't… he's defeated… Kolya has beaten him again… he's alone… facing his greatest enemy… he can't do this anymore… he might as well take his chances and let go…

And then stuff gets weird.

And Kolya says he doesn't intend to kill him. And tells him to climb up using both hands.

And John checks his left hand. And it's intact again. So he hauls himself back up.

"What the hell's going on?"

And it's all been a hallucination. To keep him occupied while the Sakkari rescue their repository.

And it has to be some kind of sick joke because to disable the Jumper would have been enough.

The Sakkari didn't have to make him go through all this… didn't have to be Kolya… didn't have to bring up those old issues… those memories…

And the Sakkari tells John that it was his own mind that chose how the hallucination should run. His own mind that decided what form his darkest fears would take.

"You mean I tortured myself?"

"You torture yourself, everyday, John…"

-oAo-

And engineering needed him to see to that?

Woolsey can now appreciate Dr. McKay's constant complaints about the lower echelons… no… those are McKay's words… not his own… he'd never claim such superiority over his fellow human being… but then…

It _was_ twenty minutes there and back from a God-knows-where basement level in some tower no one ever visits. And the transporter seems to have a mind of its own, taking him _up_, before he can take another to go back _down_ to his office… he's never really gotten the hang of these things… sometimes he believes its one big practical joke on the part of the scientists but whenever he mentions his… difficulties… they keep deadly serious… oh, they're good… they're really good… one day he's going to catch them out… then just they wait… they'll never know what's hit them… the full wrath of Richard Woolsey…

Its dark already and a thousand things to see to still… the Sakkari incident has certainly concertinaed his day's schedule. And… Sheppard…

… there… on a balcony… yes… he needs to speak to him too… about his report…

And the Colonel's leaning on the balcony rail, a can in hand, taking in the night air, no doubt… And surprisingly, for once, the door slides open easily for Woolsey…

And damn…

He stops dead.

What does he do now?

He's been on the personnel courses… read all the text books but nothing has prepared him for this… his military commander is crying into his beer?

And there's no mistake. The dark figure of Sheppard hunched over the rail. Who turns his face away. Trying to cover up. A hand smudging across his eyes.

"I'll…" And Woolsey coughs. Embarrassed. "I'll come back later…" And Woolsey goes to leave… still wondering what he's going to do… he can't ignore this but…

"S'okay…"

And Woolsey reluctantly returns to the darkness of the balcony, because… well, he can't ignore this… He leans on the rail with both hands, eyes fixed rigidly forward… across to the far towers and lights of Atlantis that glitter and sparkle like a Galaxy all of their own… not daring to look sideways at Sheppard… but knowing the Colonel is still trying to hide his face… to look the opposite way… towards the distant black sea…

"Well…" ventures Woolsey after a moment, "it seems to me… it's not ok… Is it?" The rail is cold on his hands and he taps his fingers against the metal instead. And yes, he's nervous... he'll admit that...

"What do you want, Woolsey?" And the words are hostile which hardly seems fair… he did offer to leave after all. He chances a glance in Sheppard's direction. Concerned. There's a breeze off the sea that is cold too. And Woolsey is already shivering. Sheppard must be feeling the cold too...

"How long have you been out here?" he asks. He sees an empty can on the floor. And Sheppard throws back his head and finishes off the last of the second. Probably some time then...

"What do you want, Woolsey?" his Colonel asks once more. Not so hostile. A slight waver in the voice. Sheppard is leaning forward on the rail again, toying with the empty can, still holding his head towards the shadow… away from the light that's behind them in the corridor...

It's the report that Woolsey's come about… so… he might as well talk about that… perhaps it's the root of everything that's going on here… perhaps it'll break the ice… perhaps that will make Sheppard more forthcoming… perhaps that's just too much supposition, Richard. This guy is notorious for not opening up. He really thinks he can succeed where others have failed? he asks himself. But… he can't overlook this… this is a huge question mark over the Colonel's ability as commander… but allowances can be made… if he could only find the reason why… and he wants to help… God knows how many times now Sheppard has been a confidante… has listened… has given words of advice… being in command isn't easy… Sheppard has always understood that… Woolsey would only be too glad to reciprocate the favour…

He coughs again. And grips the rail tight. "Your report… on the events on the Mainland… well, I expect such brevity from Ronon-"

"-It's what happened." And Sheppard's reply is still blunt and monotone.

Woolsey continues regardless. "Your hallucination was Kolya. Your words I'm quoting here. 'I escaped. Was captured. I escaped again.' All this to keep you occupied? And that's it?" He finds it difficult to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yeah…"

"The Sakkari explained that our hallucinations were manifestations of our fears. With me, and I'm nearly ashamed to admit it, it was a fear of being lonely. With Dr. McKay, and we can all laugh now, a fear of not being appreciated… So… Kolya is a fear of yours? I'll concede that… after everything you've been through at his hands… but… Kolya is dead and has been for two years…so… Kolya represented something else entirely? "

There is no response from the other side of the balcony. So Woolsey presses on again. Though he hates this. But he's come thus far…

"The Sakkari apologised for everything it put you through… and it sounded like… it was no light matter of simply being tied up for a few hours… so tell me… what _did_ happen on the Mainland?"

Still no reply.

"I don't want to push this… but your current…" and he waves a hand to indicate Sheppard being on the balcony and he realises it now… a_ lonely_ balcony… "demeanour… I need to know the truth…"

Sheppard stoops down and places his can carefully on the floor at his feet. He's leaning on the rail again, the breeze ruffling his hair. He draws in a deep breath seeming to take strength from the cold sea air. And Woolsey can see something of his face now. And he feels more concerned than ever.

"I was tortured," says Sheppard eventually.

And Woolsey feels a wave of alarm. He's seen the report on the time that the Wraith, Todd was permitted to feed on the Colonel. He's seen how much Sheppard can bear. He's heard all the talk of how Sheppard is a such a master of understatement when it comes to experiencing pain… it's unimaginable now, no, the opposite… _completely_ _imaginable,_ unfortunately, what Sheppard must have gone through on the Mainland… when Sheppard uses just three words… one simple basic fact…

"Well… I can understand-"

"-You figure I have a fear of torture?" interrupts Sheppard dryly.

"Everyone… " Everyone could be said to have a fear of torture. The pain. How they will stand up. Will they give things away? This isn't a basis for the hallucination specific to Sheppard.

"Did you… give intel away? Is that what you're afraid of?"

He feels that Sheppard shakes his head in the semidarkness.

"Kolya cut off my hand."

"Pardon me? Did you say?...." Woolsey is aghast. He remembers how real his relationship was with the Sakkari, Dr Vanessa Conrad. This is… nearly too horrific to contemplate… He stares at his military commander. The light from the corridor is faint and dim here. But its enough now to see the clasped hands of Sheppard. The knuckles are white. The tendons are pronounced. Sheppard's face is still turned to the shadow. His voice continues to come out of the shadow and is full of what Woolsey can only describe as combined anguish and bitterness. Woolsey can't remember Sheppard ever being like this.

"Kolya cut off my hand. If we made up our own hallucinations, what sort of sick mind have I got?"

"I'm sorry…"

"He wanted the IDC for Atlantis. I was tied up. I was beaten up. I wouldn't give it. He cut off my hand to use genetic material to operate the Jumper. I tried escaping. To stop him and his men. It seemed no matter how hard I tried I couldn't save Atlantis. I couldn't protect our people here. I have a fear of failure. I've failed before. The torture was punishment for past failings. There are people who I feel would be here now if I hadn't let them down… " There's a long pause. A long drawn out sigh before he continues. "I have a fear of failure. Kolya also accused me of running away. Of having a death wish. That's all mixed up in there somewhere too. You can add that to your report, Woolsey. I don't really care."

"Sheppard… John… I'm sure that's not true…" And Sheppard's face turns briefly to the light. And it's torment. Self torment. It's all over, finished for Woolsey and McKay, but not for Sheppard…

They are both silent for a moment. Night sounds come from the sleeping city. A cable somewhere creaking in the wind. The hush of waves gentle against the piers far below.

"You can't take sole responsibility for the regrettable loss of life we have sustained so far on this expedition. In fact, you shouldn't take any. Everyone is here knowing the risks, the dangers. Inevitably events will take a turn for the worse and we become the unfortunate victims-"

"-I killed my mother," blurts out Sheppard suddenly and forcibly. He's leaning a shoulder against the wall. An arm held tightly over his head.

Woolsey's been talking. Not noticing till now. Reeling out platitudes. He's more worried than ever... And he's sure he hasn't heard right.

"Sorry?… I don't understand…"

"I… killed… my… mother…" His words are choked out. Fighting back the tears that are there in the darkness.

Woolsey's confused. He's quickly thinking. Sheppard's personnel file. Mother died young. Nothing more than that. This is a bolt out of the blue and completely unexpected. And Sheppard speaks again…

"I couldn't… I was only a kid…" His hand lowers to his mouth to catch the sob that is there…

"Sheppard don't…" If the Colonel is going to say anything incriminating, he'd rather not hear…

Sheppard twists round now to face the wall and it seems like he's grinding his forehead against the surface, his right arm is holding his left tight, writhing nearly in an agony that is like physical pain.

"I couldn't… I stepped out into the road… I was a kid… she pushed me clear… saved me… and a truck hit her… the last I ever saw of her was…" and he's looking down now… looking down at his left hand… he's breathing fast… shoulders heaving… and Woolsey realises… that this must be one of the most difficult things that Sheppard has ever had to say… "The last I ever saw of her… was her hand… her… body was trapped under the truck… her hand…"

And suddenly...

...he raises his left fist and slams it against the wall.

"Sheppard!!" Woolsey lurches forward to stop him and without thinking catches Sheppard as he turns clutching at his arm, groaning, back sliding down the wall. And Woolsey ends up sitting beside the crumpled form that is Sheppard on the floor.

"God! It was my fault! It was all my fault!" moans Sheppard tossing his head from side to side…

"It couldn't be… You said… you were a child…"

And Woolsey is fumbling for his handkerchief… glad he's gotten a newly pressed one… thinking it weird how you think of things like this in a time of crisis… weird how calm he was feeling…he's a desk guy… paperwork… dotting 'i's, crossing 't's is his thing… but he's been a lawyer… and you get to assess people in that profession… you learn to read the body language of others… he knows that Sheppard runs deep… that there's more to him than the bravado of the soldier… he wouldn't earn the loyalty and respect of his men if there wasn't… nor the friendship of Teyla, Rodney and Ronon… but this was Sheppard… tower of strength breaking up before his very eyes… and he'd had no clue… no clue the guy had been feeling like this… Sheppard had been laughing and joking at McKay's expense earlier… they all had… and the handkerchief is needed because if Sheppard isn't aware of the damage he's just done to his hand, Woolsey is.

"Here."

"What?"

And he leans across Sheppard and Sheppard allows him to lift his hand and to bind it. It feels limp. But it's probably because the man is drained, exhausted, shocked. All three. Because he's quiet now. Though Woolsey can feel him trembling and he's certain it's not the cold.

"You don't think you've broken it?"

"What?"

"Your hand." And Sheppard looks at it dazed.

And makes no reply. And they just sit there, legs outstretched. And God, Woolsey wishes his mind would stop thinking of practicalities, but the floor is so cold and he really wants to go indoors. But he won't leave Sheppard. Sheppard needs someone to talk to. And at the moment that's got to be Richard Woolsey. And he guesses all this is because Sheppard is finding it easier to unburden to a relative stranger…

"We should get you to the infirmary. You know I'm not one for subterfuge but I am prepared to say that you fell and injured your hand… but that's on the proviso… that this is an isolated incident?... You can't possibly have had episodes like this since a child and kept it concealed from everyone…"

Sheppard simply shakes his head and rubs his uninjured hand over his mouth.

"I can't… I can't believe I just did that…"

"To be honest, neither can I… but obviously… well, some tension had to be released…"

"Yeah… I guess… I'm sorry… it won't happen again…"

An uncomfortable silence and he supposes Sheppard is now embarrassed by all of this… but Woolsey can't exactly forget it just happened… a duty as a commander… a duty as a friend…

He picks up courage to probe further, hoping he won't be considered tactless.

"Am I correct to assume that the hand Kolya severed was…" and he nods towards Sheppard's injured hand which lies worrying motionless in his lap. "You know... the left?"

"Yeah." He's talking in monosyllables now. And Woolsey knows this is because its tough to talk again.

"The same hand as?..."

"Yeah. The same…" And bringing attention to that hand, makes Sheppard draw it closer to his body, wincing as he does so…

"The Sakkari certainly did put you through the proverbial wringer, didn't they?"

"Yeah, I… I could've done without that…"

"I'm sure..." and Woolsey shifts on the uncomfortable floor. What does he say now?

"You know… you're wrong to blame yourself for your mother's death? You don't need me to tell you that? And I can't believe I'm the first?"

"No."

"But it doesn't help, does it?"

"No."

"It was an accident. Pure and simple. Events don't always go the way we want them, especially when we're young perhaps. Life can seem idyllic… and then reality sets in…"

"Shit happens, huh?"

"Well," And he manages a half wry smile. "I wouldn't use that phrase myself…" He knows that this is Sheppard attempting to lighten up, to make the incident here on the balcony less than it actually is.

"How old were you?"

"Six."

"And there was a brother? Your father? How were they affected? Wasn't professional help sought out?"

"My brother is a half-brother. She wasn't his mother. My father just moved house and kept busy… same as he always did… we never got on… I sorta coped… on my own…" He doesn't sound bitter. He's just stating facts. It was just the way it was. And Woolsey guesses he's been coping on his own ever since and its become habitual… to be independent… to not need anyone… to cover up what must be a deep seated hurt… but then a new need… a need to protect others… not a duty… not a military duty… but a real need… because he couldn't save his mother… Ah… Richard… missed his vocation… should have been an analyst…

"Why do you think the Sakkari picked up on this now if you… coped…"

"A year ago… Dad passed away… things came to a head again… memories… and then Elizabeth turned up… I…"

"Feel like you can't protect people you care about…" and Woolsey nods understanding… "feel like you've failed… Well, Sheppard… you're only human… despite that ATA gene of yours, you're only human… you are entitled to make mistakes… but, as far as I can see from your record… Sumner, Elizabeth, Ford, blame was never laid at your door… and I guess, here at Atlantis, here in Pegasus, tremendous pressure is on your shoulders to get things right… to ensure no one else becomes another statistic… but the pressure is not yours alone… we're all in this together… no one is waiting for you to trip up… no one is expecting you to prove anything… saying all this… your record shows… well, you've already proven everything… we can actually depend on you… and you've shown you can go to extremes on that score… your mother… forgive me if I mention her… well, there must be something in the genetic make up there if she sacrificed her life for you… my advice is… don't look at her death as a failure on your part but as a source of inspiration… I realise it must have been traumatic for you at the time… but you should be proud of her… just as all of us here are proud to know you… what you have achieved here is no small thing… this incident here this evening will be in no way detrimental to the opinion I personally hold of you… that others share… there is an Air Force motto isn't there?... integrity first, sacrifice before self, excellence in all we do-"

"-No."

"What?"

"No. It's service before self."

"Well… I think it amounts to the same thing… and I think you tick all the boxes on that score and then some… I apologise… I'm probably rambling… but now if you excuse me… I think it's time for these old bones to get off this cold floor…" He struggles up, grunting. "You need help?" And he offers a hand to Sheppard. Who takes it. "You really should get that checked over." He says of the injured hand.

"Yeah. Five minutes…" And Sheppard's leaning on the rail again. Woolsey hesitates.

"It's ok. I'm not about to throw myself off the balcony." Woolsey hopes that is a joke. And then Sheppard asks, "What are you going to do?"

"About?"

"Are you… are you going to make me see a shrink?"

"It'd make sense to do so." And he sighs. "But since I've been unable to surpass my predecessors and get you to attend even such a mundane thing as a psychiatric review, I can't see that happening, can you? However… you do need to talk to someone… you haven't spoken with Teyla, Dr McKay, Ronon about this, ever, have you?" He's certain the answer is no.

"I don't want or need their sympathy," Sheppard says hoarsely, staring out into the dark.

"Actually, I beg to differ. I think that you do." In fact, he suspects that his Colonel needs heaps of the stuff. "You can't keep this bottled up and... you know the old adage… a problem shared is a problem halved… I hope that I've been of some help… but those who are your friends-"

"-Woolsey?"

"Colonel?"

"It's been a helluva day… Thanks." And Woolsey can hear the appreciation in the one word. And nods, comprehending.

"You're welcome… good night, Colonel."

-oAo-

"_Look mommy! Look mommy, I'm flying! I'm flying just like a jet, mommy!"_

_And another jet flew low over the bluff, screeching, cutting air, turning wings on edge, dipping down towards the black-blue sea, disappearing from view, rising, soaring up, up, up into grey skies._

He's throwing Torren high into the air. The child is squealing in delight.

"Look, Torren is flying!" he yells.

And John catches the boy. And throws him again.

"Torren is flying just like a plane!"

And Teyla enters the room with laundry and she's alarmed.

"It's ok, Teyla! I won't drop him!" And he throws Torren up again.

And the child's laughter is infectious and his mother breaks out into a broad smile.

She begins to fold clothes, thanking John for keeping Torren amused.

"It has always seemed a pity to me that you have no family of your own… you would've made an excellent father."

And when he stops and quietly puts Torren back in his bouncy chair, she realises perhaps that the remark was something of a conversation stopper… She tries to remain bright.

"Ronon has mentioned some of this in the past, but you have never really talked of your own family, your upbringing, John. Yet you know all about mine…"

"That would be a long story…" And although he's sure he's recovered from Kolya now, he's tempted to take Woolsey's advice…

"Well, it is approaching Torren's bed time," says Teyla, "and both he and I together _like_ long stories…"

So Teyla knows now. And before long Ronon does too. And they've both lost family to the Wraith so they understand. And John can't understand why he hasn't told them before now. And then McKay knows. Who has to sorta make a joke about it.

"Ok! You always have to do one better, don't you, Sheppard?! My mother just dropped dead in the back yard, you know?"

And then Rodney's serious. And he promises never to mention the death wish thing again because it's Rodney who screams at him the most about that. And Rodney says John can't possibly be expected to be the _only_ one who has to do _all _the protecting around Atlantis. And Rodney says his father was never there for him either. And Ronon was taken hunting by his grandfather. And Rodney repeats what the other two have already said. Don't beat yourself up. You weren't to blame. John's always known that… but he can't stop himself feeling that way… but perhaps he did need to be told again by these three because, well, things don't seem so bad from now on… and the bond between all four is stronger than ever… and he hates thinking this way because it sounds so corny… but… Teyla, Ronon, Rodney are his family now anyway…

"_Look mommy! Look mommy, I'm flying! I'm flying just like a jet, mommy!"_

The planes still fly here in Rockfall. And he looks up. It never grows old. That thrill… exhilaration. That is all physicality… yet… and this is John Sheppard admitting this… that is all soul… the mystery may have gone… and the child who saw the clear, oh so clear blue sky as the domain of angels has moved on… Sheppard now knows what's beyond _that_ boundary…

As the screech of the engines subsides to a low thunder and the jet becomes nothing more than a flash of metal high in the clouds, he knows the point the pilot is carrying out adjustments and making checks… he knows the feel of the controls and what each will do… he knows when he can push things to the limit… he knows when to make allowances… he knows the details and specs… science and tech… precision and engineering… but he also knows that glance through the glass… all that immensity that comes in with the roar that cuts the sky, to wrap itself round your very heart…

…and just sheer damn speed and power and the pull of gees isn't so bad either…

A child had dreams here on this cliff once and a man made them happen. So much time has passed but really it's all been mostly good… mostly…

To one side is the town. And now the screaming of the jet has gone, familiar noises come up from the harbour. The chug of small boats and the clinking of rigging. To the front, he sees the far horizon and hears the whisper of the sea. To the other side is the beach house with its 'For Sale' sign tapping loose in the breeze. The sun shows itself and glares off the sea so he flicks on his shades and turns to the cemetery behind him, opening the small white gate set in the picket fence.

_And the praying face and the praying hands of the white an__gel of Great Aunt Matilda seem to bless the whole wide world._

He was last here soon after he visited Ford's cousin. That was self punishment then… a form of penance…

Nothing has changed much. There's a few extra headstones. One for Tom and Clarrie. He couldn't make either of their funerals. They'd understand, he knew that. He smiles slightly at a memory. Clarrie's voice and face, laughing. 'And don't you dare come back unless-what's the next rank?' He tells her Colonel. 'Well, don't you dare come back until you're a Colonel!' And she presses a bag of cakes into his hands though he insists he can't take them with him…

He supposes that the time when everyone was sending videos home to loved ones he could have sent one to these guys… but he hated the idea of saying good bye to them… and as his father was still alive, it didn't seem right somehow… and Rodney had sort of sprung it on everyone that he was able to open the Gate for just long enough to get messages through… not long enough for John to come to terms with the fact that the physical gulf set up between him and his family wasn't such a gulf after all… that perhaps he should deal with it somehow… and then he didn't… He remembers being grouchy with Teyla that day… and when he refused to take refugees on the Jumper, she even accused him of not being the man she thought he was… she was too right there… John pretending not to have a family, when he had… instead he'd filmed a tribute to Colonel Sumner… to be sent to Sumner's family… more penance…

He's carrying flowers and pulls two out of the bunch and lays them at the grave of Tom and Clarrie. And then walks over to his mother's.

He thinks he's always prepared for this… but he never is…

_It's alright to cry, John…_

It never gets any easier… seeing her name carved there… but it's the last time… he's decided… the beach house is on the market again… he doesn't need to put himself through this anymore…

He bites his lip, pushing back the tears and stoops to lay the flowers at the base of the headstone…

"Miss you," he murmurs, because he does, even after all these years… whatever he's decided, nothing is ever going to change that…

He stands.

_What are you running from, John?_

But it's not running. It never really has been. What's past has simply been the course of events that his life has taken him. Even the toss of a coin could never alter that inevitability… you can't run… but you can, not accept it… he guesses he's accepting things now…

He's in his forties. Older and wiser perhaps. Older than the thirty one years on his mother's headstone. They only knew each other for such a short space of time. But it was long enough to leave a mark… and she's been there always… her influence as strong as the time she was on this earth… integrity, service before self, excellence in all that we do… a guiding hand in everything that he does… she's never really left him…

A guardian angel…

It's ok to cry, to care… to make sacrifices for those you love is the best reason, after all…

End


End file.
